


Solo Artist

by carolion



Category: American Idol RPF
Genre: Fantasy, M/M, Masturbation, Music, Voice Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2012-12-09
Packaged: 2017-11-20 16:43:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/carolion/pseuds/carolion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>David gets a mysterious package from Cook. (Fic train fill. Prompt: getting an advance listen to a new album.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solo Artist

There's a package on his table in the kitchen when he gets home - not the kind you get in the mail but the kind that was sort of hastily wrapped in brown wrapping paper and tied up with twine, and it has a note scribbled on the wrapping. Normally he would be freaked out about seeing a mysterious package _in his house_ , but when he gets closer he can tell that it's Cook's handwriting and that makes him sort of inexplicably happy. 

(He doesn't think too much about how the package got from Cook's hands to like, inside his house but he's just going to assume that Cook didn't break in to put it there, and probably asked someone who has a key to put it where he would find it.)

The note is short and simple. _’You asked for new music and, well, here you go. It’s a really rough demo, just keep that in mind. – DC’_

David’s heart jumps and he stares at the package - _the demo_ \- with newly sparked awe. New music! New music from _Cook_! And he was getting an advance listen, oh my gosh. He undoes the twine quickly, and catches sight of a _PS_ scribbled underneath the note Cook had written.

_’PS If any of these show up on the internet I am totally blaming you, Archuleta.’_

“I would never do that,” David mumbles to himself, carefully unwrapping the package and staring at the CD in his hands. There’s a jumpy sort of nervousness in his stomach, and he doesn’t know why, except he does know why. He and Cook, they’ve talked about this before, how the first albums were really fun and awesome but kind of rushed. And this album by Cook is going to have even _more_ thought put into it, even though his first one was like, totally amazing. 

So he’s a little nervous when he finally opens the case and puts the CD into his stereo, perching on the couch awkwardly as he lets the music play. 

He listens to the whole thing all the way through. And then again. And then one more time. 

By the time he’s finished his third listen, David realizes he’s breathing kind of fast, like maybe he was holding his breath or something? It’s weird, but he’s like, panting a little bit. The songs are _good_. They’re really, really _raw_ , which David knows is partly because they’re just rough recordings, but also because the _content_ of the songs is raw. The last album Cook put out was more about longing and hope and triumph and – they’re similar, but they are not the same. 

There’s one song that – it’s so stripped down, just Cook’s voice and an acoustic guitar, but it isn’t sad or sweet or even slow. It’s, David can tell, it’s about sex and love and holding on and not letting go and wanting _so much_ and suddenly he’s burning up from the inside and it’s _way_ too hot in his house. 

He fumbles with the remote and ends up hitting play _again_ , but can’t bring himself to stop it once Cook’s voice washes over him. He stills feels hot, and sort of weird, and he closes his eyes, wondering if that will help. It’s almost worse that way though, because now he can imagine the way Cook would sing, with his own eyes shut and his lashes long and his mouth round and lush, and, oh gosh. 

He had told his dad that he’d gotten over his crush on Cook after the American Idol tour, that it had just been a one time thing, sort of like, whatever, a phase because of the show and how much time he spent with Cook and how supportive Cook had been and just – everything. But he had ~~kind of~~ totally been lying. The crush didn’t go away after tour, and it was still there full force in Manila, and even after that, even now…

So, um, yeah. This is. He’s _alone_ , alright, and Cook’s singing about sex and passion and he’s growling out the words like he wants to - he wants to - to do _whatever_ right then and David is sort of, okay, aroused.

It’s really embarrassing but then Cook (on the CD) does this sort of low moany thing and David really can’t help it. He bites his lip and slides his hand down his stomach, over his belt buckle and rubs hard against the bulge in his jeans, and _oh_ , it feels _so_ good, just that little bit of pressure. He tilts his head back and groans a little, fumbling with his belt and shoving his pants down, his breath hitching a little as he frees his erection. 

He doesn’t think about anything, at first, just the music playing in the background, as he wraps his hand around his cock and strokes up, his thighs tense. But then, then, he can’t help but think about Cook. Cook, the guy he’s had a crush on for _two years_ , the guy who is totally goofy and smiles really big, and sometimes smiles really _naughty_ , the guy who beat him on American Idol but still takes the time to think about and support him and - and who has amazing hands, big and calloused and David pants harshly, jerking a little quicker as he imagines Cook’s hand sliding up and down his dick. 

His hips stutter up desperately, and he makes another soft noise in his throat, able to hear the obscene slick sounds of his palm against his skin, even through the music. It makes him blush hotly, from cheeks to chest. His pace increases as the songs switch, from something slower to something much quicker, with lots of guitar and drums and it makes him feel frantic and wanting and twisted inside. He spreads his legs the best he can and wiggles down on the couch, turning his cheek so it presses against the cool throw pillows. He feels like his body is on fire, burning from the inside out. His forearm tenses as he squeezes the base of his cock, and he uses his other hand to palm the head, shutting his eyes tight at the extra sensitive stimulation. 

He can feel sweat beading at his forehead and every muscle seems to be taut, wired for his orgasm. He can feel it building, sharp snaps of pleasure that melt into a slow crescendo towards completion. A sound he barely recognizes cuts through the music and he realizes that it’s _him_ , and he’s whining, scrabbling for some sort of purchase on the couch as he thrusts up into his hand, a tight closed fist. 

Cook sings about _everything, right here, right now, this this this_ and he loses it completely, jerking hard and rough and oh, _oh_ , coming everywhere, all over his fist and his stomach and he thrashes, momentarily, because he can see _stars_. It leaves him breathless, gulping for air as the waves of pleasure fade away, and he whimpers as he gives his softening cock one last stroke, shivering from the almost-painful jolt of bliss it gives him. 

As he cleans up, he wonders how he’ll ever hear one of these songs on the radio without thinking about this, about how Cook’s voice _alone_ can make him come. He wonders how he’ll ever face Cook without blushing. He wonders what would happen if he asked Cook for a private show. (Oh – maybe?) It’s something to think about. 

Maybe later tonight he’ll listen to the demo again. Just, uh, because.


End file.
